


A Fiddle of Gold

by TheLastKitten



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-10-02 00:49:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastKitten/pseuds/TheLastKitten
Summary: Morland wants an heir, Joan isn’t as sure about motherhood, Moriarty can’t control her jealousy, and Sherlock is for once completely clueless.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I reeeally tried to keep this based in the Elementary universe but I just can’t fight my SiFi nature. I’ll be keeping the supernatural elements (as in Science Fiction stuff, not in reference to the television show) to about a four on a scale of one to ten.   
> Also, the title of this story is a lyric from The Devil Went Down to Georgia by The Charlie Daniels Band.  
> P.S. IMPORTANT: As always, please know that any and all trigger warnings possible apply for every story I write. It’s gonna get dark folks. That’s just how the zombie bunny bounces….

‘I’m so glad I wore sneakers today,’ Joan thought as she and Sherlock chased the man they’d just confronted with killing his business partner.  
He turned as they neared the middle of the Southwark bridge, pulling a gun from who knows where, and Joan shouted a warning.  
“Gun!”  
Fortunately for everyone out and about on the first sunny Sunday in three weeks, Sherlock was close enough to send the gunmen’s arm flying upward as he pulled the trigger.  
People began screaming and scattering in all directions as the officers of the Metropolitan Police Force fought through the crowds to advance on the scuffling men.  
As the fight went on a few moments longer than she expected, and well before the officers had made their way through the turmoil, Joan made her move.  
Her extendable baton whacked the man in the back of the knee and he lost his balance. Unfortunately he lost his balance shoving head long in to Sherlock, and as the two lurched over the side Joan grabbed hold of Sherlock without hesitation, going over with them.  
In the seconds of their free fall several things happened. Sherlock kicked the killer just far enough from them that he’d land several feet away, and a split second later he grabbed hold of Joan, curling around her so he’d take the brunt of the impact when they hit the water.  
As long as she lived Joan knew that she would never forget the look of panic and fear on Sherlock’s face when he realized she was going over the edge with him.  
The water hit them like a brick wall and when she breached the surface Sherlock was not with her. Immediately she pulled her phone in its brand new waterproof case from her pocket, flipped on the flashlight and took a deep breath before diving for her partner. She came up empty handed twice, more frightened each time, before making it deep enough to spot and grab hold of him.  
Turning him so she could float him to shore on his back Joan was thankful for their new shared work out routine. It had been her idea to add swimming to their regiment, and a small voice in the back of her mind had to repeat that the idea was not in part a ploy to see the detective in a pair of speedos.  
The MPF officers were scrambling to get to the end of the bridge and to the shore in pursuit of the criminal, but Joan kept her focus on smoothly making her way through the small waves with the most efficient strokes possible.  
She was exhausted when she pulled the unconscious detective back on to the muddy shore, quickly checking his respiration and finding that he wasn’t breathing, his heartbeat faint. Joan immediately tilted his head back to clear his airway before beginning resuscitatory breaths.  
After the first set of breaths, listening to his lungs and feeling his pulse in between, a creeping panic began to set in, her eyes beginning to water.  
“Please…,” she breathed into him again, inflating his lungs. “Please Sherlock…,” another breath. “Please don’t leave me…,” she breathed in to him. “Not again…,” her shoulders shook with tears on the next breath.  
Sherlock coughed wetly with one more and she rolled him on to his right side to help further drain his lungs.  
When his wheezing slowed she rolled him back prone on the ground, her hands shaking, and then she acted before she could stop herself.  
“My God Sherlock,” she whispered, her tears falling, further wetting his cheeks as she bent and kissed him.  
The detective figured it was the lack of oxygen to his brain that made him reach up to caress her freckled cheek, his lips chasing hers for a moment when she pulled away.  
“I’m...I’m so sorry Sherlock. I got carri….”  
“No,” he coughed and cleared his throat. “No apologies necessary Watson.” He rest his head back on the ground. “As you’ve just saved my life...again,” he chuckled. “I vow not to hold your sentimentality against you.”  
Joan laughed, dropping her forehead to his chest, somehow laughing and crying at the same time.  
Sherlock rest an arm across her back in a weak hug as he fought to control his breathing. A few minutes later Joan was helping him to his feet, and he weighed heavily on her as they walked towards the sirens they could hear in the distance.  
Both detectives hoped in tandem that this small crack in their platonic relationship wouldn’t affect the peaceful rhythm they’d found in their first year together in London. But they knew better. After their declarations of love during their almost separation in New York, they’d felt something shift.  
To Sherlock’s steadily clearing mind it seemed, as Joan hugged him tighter, that she’d willingly thrown herself down a rabbit hole following him across the ocean.  
And she was still falling.  
As mad as a hatter Sherlock was increasingly worried that it would be his unworthy arms that caught her at the bottom. He frowned.  
Joan on the other hand berated herself as they walked, stopping for a moment for Sherlock to catch his breath. “Let me know if you need to sit,” she told him, worriedly meeting his eyes, and he nodded.  
She knew that singular moment of weakness was going to cost them. The kiss was more than a crack in their professional and fried wall, it was a step over the carefully drawn line in a vast desert of inconvenient emotions.  
But Joan’s mind wouldn’t stop repeating a reel of Sherlock rising off the ground to prolong their kiss, and the velvet sensation of his caress. She took a deep breath, breaking their eye contact to try and focus on the task at hand. She had to get the now shivering detective to the warmth of the ambulance, but in the back of her mind she knew that they’d have to talk about what happened sooner or later. 

 

Later it turns out wasn’t that day, or that week, or that month. When the first snowflakes of winter came two months later the pair assumed the other preferred to let the sleeping dog lie. 

And then, instead of his two cents, Sherlock’s father decided to toss a grenade in to the situation. 

“Sherlock, in light of recent events I find it necessary for us to have a conversation about the future.”  
He pulled a file from his desk and sat it before his son, rising to stand and watch London’s busy streets as he prepared himself for the coming fight.  
Sherlock flipped through the file, “This is our family’s medical history.”  
“Including the records and blood work for your most recent stint in the hospital.”  
Sherlock’s mind began calculating the millions of reasons his father had begun this conversation, and he didn’t like any of his conclusions.  
“What are you getting at? Please do spit it out. Watson and I are due at the Yard in an hour.”  
Morland turned with his chin high, looking down at his son, “Alright, I’ll be blunt. You are reckless Sherlock, and with your brother gone it falls to you to continue on the Homes name.”  
Sherlock went silent and wide eyed.  
“This...again,” he replied with venom. “You want me to provide you an heir...I assume one more congenial than myself,” he continued with quiet disdain.  
Sherlock stood abruptly, buttoning his suit jacket.  
His entire life he’d dismissed the idea outright, to afraid of passing on the genes of an addict to really consider it, even while dating Irene, even for the lovely limber Agatha.  
“Clearly, your age has begun addling your mind. You may want to have your doctor screen you for an acute onset of dementia. Good day father.”  
He turned to leave but his father's words stopped him in his tracks.  
“A few weeks ago Joan began looking into Britain’s adoption laws….”  
Sherlock kept his back to his father as he listened to him sit but he didn’t move.  
“And, upon realizing there was no way for her to legally adopt a child she seems to have moved on from the idea.” Morland pulled another file from his desk, dropping it on top of Sherlock’s, who turned to eye the Manila wrapped bundle.  
“What is that?”  
“Those are Joan’s medical records. She’s been seeing a fertility specialist. It seems that she’s still quite fertile Sherlock.”  
Morland’s smile faded as he looked up at Sherlock from his expensive leather desk chair. He’d never seen that level of disdain in his son's eyes. It was a gross violation of their privacy, he knew, but a blind man could see how the two felt about each other. So he decided to get the ball rolling himself.  
Sherlock’s mind ran in multiple directions at once and looking at his own father the thought of spawning set his teeth on edge.  
But Joan.  
The thought of siring a child with Joan gave him pause, and his father narrowed his eyes as he watched the idea take hold.  
But Sherlock would never allow his father to use her in such a cruel way, to exploit her love and kindness for the sake of having a healthy broodmare to carry on their name.  
Snatching the folders off the opulent mahogany desk the detective spoke over his shoulder, completely unable to meet his father's eyes.  
“The next time I lay eyes on you it had better be at your funeral. If I see your face again it will be met with violence.” Finally he turned to him, looking him in the eyes. “And if you ever come anywhere near Joan again, I will kill you.” At the doorway he turned and managed to kept his eyes mostly on the grey sky behind his father. “We Holmes’s are nothing if not men of our word, are we not?”  
Morland watched his son leave for what may be the last time and sighed. He swiveled in his chair to looked out over the London skyline and frowned. Against the will of most of his family he had married Sherlock’s mother, and his father had been the one to force her signature on the dotted line of their prenup.  
His father also, upon his deathbed, enforced its terms, a final show of dominance to his willful son.  
Morland loosened his tie, he’d been a coward that day, putting his ambition ahead of his heart.  
In the end it had cost his children their mother, and the love of his life her life.  
He swore to himself that he would not become his father. That oath then taking the form of boarding schools and nannies, making his children cold, coming to him out of obligation or want but never love.  
In his youth Morland had loved Sherlock’s mother as fiercely as he knew in his bones Sherlock loved Joan. He had known within five minutes of meeting Joan she would be a stabilizing influence on his son, but within ten he knew she had the potential to be more. After nearly ten years together, not tolerating him but thriving by Sherlock’s side, Morland knew their roots were strong.  
So he decided to wait. If he was right his son would be making a begrudging apology to him in the next couple years with a wife and child on his arm.  
“Talimar, will you bring in the DRC files please,” he pressed the intercom on his desk phone and a moment later a tall slender man came in wearing an impeccably tailored cobalt blue Brooks Brothers suit. His thick curly dark chocolate brown hair was twined into a long wavy braid that hung nearly at his waist. Morland smiled as he took the files, the man was irreproachably beautiful, with soft dark sandy skin and thick bow lips.  
Though it was his bright sea foam green eyes that remained a constant distraction.  
Those eyes were what originally advanced him in the interview process, his hiring manager becoming immediately smitten. But Morland found out quickly why he’d had such high security clearance on his resume. He was brilliant and he had a hell of a poker face. Morland was sure that even with his and his son’s deductive skills they would never know more about his PA than he wanted them to.  
“I also have an update about that other developing matter,” he spoke with a deceptively soft voice while handing him a file marked confidential.  
Morland’s smile fell. He’d been waiting for news of Morearty, knowing that she’d been keeping an eye on the pair. He smirked thinking of her face upon hearing the news of Sherlock and Joan’s relocation.  
For all his faults Morland loved his children, and all he could hope for was to keep one step ahead of his younger son’s shadow.

 

Sherlock left his father's office in a bit of a stupor, reaching for his phone and hitting the first number on his speed dial.  
He was completely unprepared when Joan answered.  
“Hey, I was just about to text you.” She laughed and Sherlock stopped walking, closing his eyes to listen to her voice. “How’d it go with your father?”  
Standing in the middle of the busy sidewalk the flow of people broke around him for a moment before sweeping him in his chosen direction.  
Joan spoke again when he didn’t answer.  
“Hello? Sherlock? Are you okay?” She was beginning to sound concerned.  
“Where are you,” he asked trying to sound normal.  
“Just leaving 221A. How’d the meeting with your father go?” He could hear her locking the front door.  
“My father’s gone completely mad. I’ll meet you at St. James Park,” he said turning to get on the tube.  
He stood with his eyes closed as the train lurched forward so his mind could race without the distraction of wanting to deduce the people around him.  
Joan seemed to really have her heart set on being a mother. And Sherlock would never allow anyone or anything to stand in the way of that endeavor.  
There were many things Joan made less difficult or frightening by her empathetic nature. Her very presence was a balm to his own persistently inquisitive mind and a reminder of the humanity he’d inherited from his mother.  
When board he’d often take to focusing on Joan, learning new things about her or deciphering her comings and goings when she was not with him.  
He wondered what their offspring might be like, a small smile creeping onto his lips thinking of just how high an IQ their freckle faced child might be gifted with.  
One thing he would wish for, if he believed in any higher power, was that their child have her heart.  
Joan’s tenacity and patience; a child with their combined intellects and her heart would undoubtedly change the world for the better.  
He opened his eyes as they called his stop and exited the station to see Joan waiting for him at the entrance.  
Her dark cyan blue hat and scarf stood in bright contrast to her fading blond hair, and her fitted black tweed coat looked very warm.  
In her gloved hands she held two cups of coffee and she extended one out to him as he approached. It was perfect as usual and he smirked to himself as they fell in step towards the Yard.  
Attempting to connect the dots of Sherlock’s behavior Joan noted the smirk, his current silence, and his quip while leaving his father’s office. “So,” she began.  
“I’ve noticed you’ve taken to wearing more sensible shoes Watson,” he cut off her train of thought as she glanced down at her chosen footwear.  
Pacific Mountain snow boots, black with a rubber waterproof outer layer, lined with faux fur. They were modeled after Equestrian Riding boots to be stylish but hard wearing.  
“Yea well, the criminals in London seem to favor flight over fight. Literally running around town is not an option in any inch heels,” she smiled. “Did your father need help with a case or something?”  
“Never fear Watson.” Sherlock took a loud breath through his nose before turning more towards her so he could speak without the people passing them hearing. “My father insinuated a rather cruel business venture, to which my answer was a recommendation that he see a doctor lest he be slipping into senility.”  
Joan raised an eyebrow trying to suppress her laughter. “You should also change the passwords to your accounts.”  
She looked at him and raised her other eyebrow, “Which accounts?”  
“All of them. Ah, here we are.”  
Out of both instinct and habit he pulled the door open for her when they reached their destination, and stepping inside he paused a moment in realization of how much he’d changed. Watching Joan walk down the hall towards the elevators he knew why. She was the water that inevitably wore down his stony exterior. He nearly blushed at his compulsive want to please her. To shine as brilliantly as possible if for nothing more than to see her smile.  
He hurried to catch up with her and when they were alone in the elevator she spoke with a small knowing smile, “So what business venture did he propose that has you so frazzled?”  
“Frazzled, I’m not frazzled,” he sneered without any real anger.  
“Your call was a stress response, probably didn’t even think about it until you heard my voice. You didn’t speak when I answered because the call was an unconscious decision.”  
He stared at the buttons on the elevator so long he had to stop the doors closing and catch up with her again after becoming suddenly lost in thought.  
She knew him well.  
The captain beckoned them into her office to give them a rundown on the case and three hours later they sat in the study of 221B surrounded by crime scene photos.  
“Yes thank you, and yes we’ll share any new information we get,” Joan hung up with a sigh. “Sherlock, this is bad, really bad, like Jack the Ripper bad,” she said running a hand through her feathery hair.  
“Jack the Ripper was an upstanding member of the royal family who compulsively murdered prostitutes in a mad obsession with human experimentation.”  
“Whoever this man is he’s murdered at least four families all across England.”  
“Five, I’ve found another family matching his MO in Middlesbrough.” Sherlock looked up from his laptop.  
“All four families we found had three children, two parents and a dog.” Joan put her hands on her hips as she looked up at the victim board. “That’s a lot of people to try not to wake up during a home invasion,” she looked over at Sherlock who’s eyes betrayed his wonder. “What?”  
He blinked and tried to cover his distraction, “We need to look for similar homicides that don’t fit this pattern.” He looked back down at his laptop, minimizing all of his windows. Staring at the screen in thought he didn’t quite register Joan’s question, nor did he hear her approach his desk.  
“Sherlock? Did you hear me,” she asked as she began walking around the desk, but the detective popped up out of his chair so fast she had to take a step back. “Lunch! Yes, I’m famished.” Sherlock pressed a warm hand to the small of Joan’s back as he guided her towards his kitchen, not realizing she had already glimpsed the wallpaper on his laptop, a photo of Moriarty's portrait of her.  
She turned to stop their walking and placed a soft unthinking hand on his forehead; he closed his eyes soaking in her warmth.  
“Sherlock are you feeling okay, you’ve been acting strange today?”  
The detective sighed, “Yes...no, no I seem to find myself...distracted as of late.”  
“Well you don’t have a fever.” Her hand became two fingers as it moved to his neck, “you feel a bit clammy though.” She looked at her watch, “Your pulse is a bit elevated too.” The detective kept his eyes closed, feeling a strange unrecognizable sensation where their skin touched. He looked almost dazed when he opened his eyes to gaze down at Joan’s concerned face. She was standing so close he could count her freckles, and he realized absentmindedly that her proximity was due in part to his hand at her back holding her there.  
Her eyes flitted briefly to his lips before she spoke, “Sherlock, when’s the last time you slept?”  
“Don’t know, what day is it,” he mumbled.  
“It’s Saturday.”  
He thought for a moment, “Monday...no Tuesday.” He swayed slightly.  
“My God Sherlock! Why...you know what never mind. Come on.” Joan maneuvered his right hand from her back to over her shoulder to guide him to his room.  
When they reached it she sat him down on his bed and pulled off his jacket and shoes, yawning despite herself. As she turned to leave he grabbed hold of her hand.  
“Watson…,” he blinked, something was strange, off, but he couldn’t get his mind to focus.  
Joan knelt down, “Sherlock what’s wrong?” She was getting more concerned. Since their tumble off that bridge they’d had pockets of weirdness, but nothing like this. In nearly ten years Sherlock had never instigated as much physical contact as he had in the last half hour.  
She felt almost guilty touching him so much as she cupped his cheek, knowing she was the rare exception to this particular unspoken rule, the semi conscious man turning slightly into her hand. Joan knew that, despite his many irregular playmates, he seemed to recoil at anything more than a handshake from most people.  
Now he was openly leaning in to one of her hands and gripping the other. His drowsiness seemed to be a symptom of his sleep deprivation, but his clammyness was not.  
“Stay...please...Joan…,” she lay him down but he wouldn’t let go of her hand, so she sat on the side of the bed and stroked her free hand through his hair as she yawned again.  
Looking around she realized that her mind was also starting to fog and that she shouldn’t be nearly as tired as she was after the large cup of coffee she’d had only a few hours ago. She shook her head in an attempt to clear it; the carbon monoxide detector wasn’t going off so she dismissed the idea of a leak.  
Which more than likely meant some sort of knockout gas they’d failed to detect.  
She tried to stand but her legs were like jelly and her body was quickly running out of steam.  
Joan looked down at Sherlock with worry, placing her free hand on his shoulder to shake him, but it was getting harder to keep her eyes open. Grabbing Sherlock’s cell from his jacket pocket she quickly dialed the emergency 999 button before it slipped from her hand.  
Her body losing the fight to whatever chemicals were in the air, Joan could only fall back against Sherlock to keep from passing out on the floor, the detective already unconscious, sprawled out on his back. 

 

When Joan woke it was with a gasp and a start as she sat up in bed, and with a blurry look around she realized she was in a hospital.  
“Good morning Ms. Watson,” a deep masculine voice greeted her.  
“Morland,” she sighed wiping a hand over her face to clear her vision as he set a no doubt obscenely expensive crystal vase full of bright colorful flowers on her side table. “Where’s Sherlock,” she asked, yawning as she pulled back the covers to stand on unsteady legs.  
Morland reached out a hand to steady her when she swayed, and she wondered at his smirk as he inclined his head towards the curtain that separated her double room. He lent her his arm as she walked over to his bed and he watched intently as she reached out for his son, hesitating and glancing at the wealthy businessman.  
In the end she reached for his chart. “They found Sevoflurane in his system.” She sat on the end of her own bed and reached for her chart hanging off the end. “And in mine…. How the hell did someone gas us without us knowing. There are cameras outside each entrance of our houses, as well as in the foyers, alarm systems, conventional and not.” She looked up at Morland. “Someone got past all of it.”  
“I am aware….”  
“I’m glad the call went through, I wasn’t even sure I pressed send before I passed out.”  
Morland smiled. He knew she’d been the one to insist Sherlock add his name as an emergency contact, but that wasn’t how he’d been informed about their plight. The second they’d landed in England he’d had his contact inside Everyone hack their phones. His office was alerted the second Joan had typed in 999.  
Morland sent Talimar to their home immediately, and rightly so. The first two officers who’d entered Sherlock’s house had passed out in the second floor stairwell. Talamar had had the since to call the station for back up when he approached the open door, before grabbing the gas mask from his trunk and going inside.  
Morland had been as close to shocked as he’d been in the last ten years at the picture he received, Shakespearean in its beauty. Sherlock looking ever the part of a poisoned Romeo with his face drifting away from the light, and Joan’s rosy sleep soft lips; her head resting on his son’s chest and her hair a shiny ink and wheaton spill across his white button down in the midday sun.  
Though their clasped hands spoke the loudest of the bard’s tragedy.  
“Joan there’s something I’d like to speak to you about,” the older Holmes began.  
“Okay.”  
“Though I’m not sure that here, now is the best time to discuss it.”  
“I can come to your office in a few days,” she said curiously.  
Morland nodded.  
Just then a sharp intake of breath caught the pair’s attention, and Joan was at Sherlock’s side in an instant.  
“Sherlock...hey, it’s Joan,” she spoke softly, taking his hand.  
The detective blinked blurily, squeezing back with a sleepy smile. “Joan…”  
The surgeon blushed hard at the rough warm way he spoke her name, and she cleared her throat before she continued her greeting.  
“Your father is also here,” she said with an apologetic smile.  
Sherlock met his father’s eyes and all his earlier mirth drained away. “What did I tell you….”  
“It’s alright my boy, I was just leaving.” He gathered his coat and nodded to Joan as he left. “Ms. Watson.”  
Joan nodded to him, but she watched as Sherlock’s eyes followed his father to the door with a scowl, and his hand that wasn’t gripping hers tightly was pressing the button that raised the back of his bed.  
When his father was gone he turned to his partner, breathing hard through his nose, his grip not loosening.  
“What did my father say to you,” he began questioning her immediately.  
Joans eyes were shiny when he met them, and he swallowed. “I’ll kill him,” he said looking at the door again.  
He didn’t know what to make of Joan’s laugh, nor of her sudden hug.  
“Someone got in to the house and gassed us.” She buried her face in his neck, her tears wetting his hospital gown. “By the time I realized what was happening it was to late. I tried to wake you but you were out cold and... all I could think to do was call for help….”  
At first Sherlock didn’t move. He took a deep breath and his body went on autopilot when he smelled her perfume. His arms encircled her, hugging her to him so tightly her small feet came off the floor till she was sitting fully on his bed, nearly in his lap.  
“You did the right thing Joan,” he whispered to her. “By calling the police you no doubt foiled an enemy’s plot to abduct or harm us,” he spoke softly, close to her ear.  
Sherlock’s nerves were set on edge when his father was in the room, and even out of sight his plots plagued his sons mind. But Joan was quietly crying in his arms, so for now his priority was Watson, and he pulled his blankets up to cover her shoulders as they clung to each other.  
He shook his head no in response to an incoming nurse, holding up a hand in a silent plea for them to have more time alone. The dark sandy skinned shamrock green eyed woman nodded with a small smile as she closed the door behind herself.  
Half an hour later saw Joan fast asleep tucked in next to Sherlock on his bed. She felt small in his arms and he’d just begun to doze off to the smell of her hair when the nurse knocked, gently opening the door.  
“Enter,” he whispered.  
“Hello Mr. Holmes. Would it be alright if I gave you a once over now,” she asked with a quiet welsh accent.  
Sherlock nodded and began untangling himself from Joan, slowly sliding his arm from under her head. She stirred for a moment but settled after the detective pulled the blanket back up over her shoulders, whispering in her ear, “sleep.”  
He noted that the nurse was trying hard to appear not to be watching them, as she readied the items she’d need for the exam.  
Her lusciously curly hair was pulled back in to a bun on the back of her head with a few long swirling strands falling to obscure her left eye, and after listening to his breathing and checking his blood pressure she spoke.  
“Your wife is very beautiful, and she clearly adores you.”  
“We are not wed as it were…,” Sherlock corrected her. “She’s my partner,” he continued, looking back at Joan as the nurse began drawing his blood. “And my best friend.” He was quiet a moment. “I value her opinion above all others.” He watched as the nurse switched vials. “At the beginning of our relationship she’d been sent to me as a guide of sorts, a companion to help me reintegrate back into the world as a functioning member of society. But that quickly changed,” he glanced back at the former surgeon. “She can’t abide the conventional but she’s too stubborn to admit it. I often suspect that particular quirk was the final push in to the life we now share.”  
The nurse smiled, ”I was told she use to be a doctor, she must be really smart too.”  
“A brilliant surgeon, and a brilliant detective.”  
Sherlock wiped a hand over his face as the nurse filled in his paperwork. “We’re like minded in our love of a good mystery, and under my tutelage she has became an accomplished detective in her own right.” He smiled closing his eyes, “She’s the best student I’ve ever had. Diligent...smart...brave….” He met the nurse’s green eyes, “Believe it or not this isn’t the first time she’s saved my life.” He scoffed, “this isn’t even the first time she’s saved my life this year.”  
“She seems like an amazing woman,” she leaned over to better view Joan’s gentle sleeping face and raised an eyebrow. “So...just to be clear, when you said “partner”,” the nurse held up her fingers. “Did you mean business partner or like lover partner?”  
Sherlock swallowed thickly, blinking several times before his brain was able to formulate an answer. “Yes….”  
“Beg pardon?”  
“I mean no. We...we’re….”  
“Um okay, can you let me know when you figure that out. A woman like her isn’t one I’d pass up.” She chuckled. “Alright! We are all done here Mr. Holmes.” The nurse stood from the rolling stool, clearly excited about the prospect of wooing Watson.  
“If you need anything else just press the button with the red cross on it, oh and my name is Olivia but everyone calls me Bunny.”  
Sherlock looked at her with an arched eyebrow and she answered his unasked question.  
“I love marshmallows,” she smiled and slipped out the door.  
Sherlock stared at the door for a few moments after it closed. There were a million and one questions buzzing around in his head but both his mind and body were exhausted.  
He’d clearly had a negative reaction to the gas they’d been exposed to, and his head ached at the thought of reading anything at the moment. So he decided to give in to his human needs. Laying back down the detective reached an arm back over Joan’s shoulders and she took a deep breath as she burrowed in closer to him, her small hand resting over his heart.  
Sherlock lay awake for a few more minutes contemplating “Bunny’s” assumption.  
He’d never given any real thought to marriage, with his early exposure being his parents relationship that ended with his mother’s exile and death. He’d considered it while he was with Morearty, aka Irene Adler, but in his heart he knew it wasn’t meant to be.  
At least not with her.  
Joan Watson was the exception to many if not all of his rules, and he wondered if she had even the slightest idea the power she could wield through him.  
The connection to his father alone would be worth gaining his confidence.  
But she genuinely loved the work. She understood the lure of a good mystery, and he wouldn’t begrudge her her hero complex, she’d earned the mantle of heroin many times over.  
It worried him though, the thought of how far he knew he was willing to go for her. He hadn’t been joking when he told his brother he would kill him if anything happened to her.  
He would have slit Mycroft’s throat and, prison or not, he estimated he’d have OD’d within a matter of weeks.  
Sherlock closed his eyes hugging her closer. ‘Love like this is dangerous,’ he thought to himself, and again he felt his kinship with Morearty.  
The monster that falls in love with the human.  
Could Joan finally make him “one of them”?  
The answer to his question struck the detective almost as soon as he’d thought it.  
Joan would never try to make him “one of them”.  
Joan Watson saw him, saw all of him….  
And she loved him anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes and Watson sat at Sherlock’s kitchen table eating their chosen breakfasts staring at all the surveillance equipment they’d found in their respective homes the night before.  
“I'm going to be out this weekend to show my sister around, any suggestions for where we should go,” Joan asked quietly.  
They’d barely spoken in the week since the gassing, but they had mutually decide to take some time off, Sherlock to rest and visit some of his irregulars and Joan to make some tough decisions.   
“So you’ve decided then?”  
“Decided? Decided what?”  
“Whatever it is you’ve been wringing your hands about all week,” Sherlock assessed her.  
She was keeping something from him, something important. He couldn’t tell what it was and that worried him, but the news of a visit from her sister earlier in the week meant it was something personal. Something that her sister was willing to cross an ocean to talk to or console her about, and that downright terrified him.   
“Whatever it is you decided that’s convinced your sister to come all the way to England.”  
Joan was quiet for a moment, her eyes cast down on her cooling honey sweetened porridge.   
“Sherlock...you know how much I value our work right?”  
The detective nodded.  
“That I value our partnership, more than anything?”  
“I feel the same Watson.”  
“Being a detective has given me purpose again, and every time we solve a case I feel….”   
She looked out at the bright blue sky. “I feel hope, like we’ve made a difference in the world, even when we solve smaller less high profile cases.”  
The morning sun left a soft halo of light around her feathery unbrushed bedhead, and she pulled her worn red sweater tighter around her shoulders.   
Meeting his eyes she confessed, “I had a meeting with your father on Monday.”  
Sherlock’s eyes went wide as Joan’s fell to her bowl, “He told me about the business venture as you put it.”  
“I’m going to kill him,” Sherlock growled. “My apologies Watson. My father’s gross violation of your privacy I assure you will neither be forgiven nor forgotten.” The detective was quietly fuming and Joan imagined actual steam coming out of his ears.   
“It’s okay,” she tried to assure him.  
“No Watson it most certainly is not. His only interest is an heir, someone to pass all his coveted fortunes to. And he seems to be under the mad assumption that, should you be in need of a spermatozoal donation, you would come to me...the antisocial drug addict.”   
Joan rolled her eyes with a small smile, “Sherlock.”  
“And he calls me selfish,” Sherlock scoffed as he stood to pace, his hands opening and closing repeatedly. “Apparently the selfish bastard apple doesn’t fall far from the tree eh.”  
“I understand your father, like you he respects honesty and…,” Joan swallowed as she met his eyes again. “I’ve been thinking about artificial insemination for a long time. But the time never seemed right, you know how busy we are.”   
Sherlock nodded.  
“And looking through the profiles,” she sighed and shook her head. “There were so many unknown variables. What if the guy lied, what if there was a mix up, what if….”  
Sherlock furrowed his brow, saddened by her struggle.   
“Like I said I’ve thought about it a lot and,” she took a breath making sure to hold the detective’s gaze as she spoke. “Honestly...if I were going to do it, have a baby...I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather have a donation from than you Sherlock.”   
Joan’s voice was so soft said detective had to step a bit closer to make sure he’d heard her correctly.   
“I beg your pardon,” he said after a few beats of silence.   
Joan blushed as she chuckled. “Of course it would be you Sherlock. I mean, I know it would cross several lines but, you’re my best friend.”   
The stunned man smiled at that, some of his anxiety relaxing.   
“And brilliant and handsome…,” she drawled with a smile and another eye roll.  
Sherlock inclined his head with a smirk at the complement and Joan reached out, gesturing for him to rejoin her at the table. He sat quickly, obedient. “More than brilliant Sherlock you’re kind. The mystery is your first love yes, but your second is justice. Stopping people who prey on the innocent and seeing them punished. It’s what separates you from people like your father and Morearty.” Joan held out her hand and Sherlock only hesitated for a moment before taking it.   
His pulse jumped immediately at the contact because her hands were so warm that her heat wound up his wrist all the way to his elbow as she rubbed the cold from his fingers. He hadn’t noticed how chilly he kept his house, and he swallowed a bit nervously.   
“I also know that no matter your level of parental involvement you’d love and protect our child with your life.”  
‘Our child,’ the words echoed through every corner of Sherlock’s mind palace as he gave her hands a squeeze with a sad smile.   
“But that’s if I was going to have a child.”  
Sherlock’s eyes were surprisingly sad as her words clarified his suspicions.   
“That’s what I decided, that I’m not going to have a child, adopted or otherwise.”  
“Watson…,” he began in disbelief. “You’ve been very clear about your desire to become a parent,” Sherlock found his other hand joining the three on the table, rubbing Joan’s soft fingers.   
“Yes but, Sherlock you were right. Our lifestyle is to dangerous. Look what happened to Moriarty's daughter, she’ll be a target for her mother’s enemies the rest of her life. I don’t want that for our baby.”   
‘Our baby,’ once again those words caught him off guard. She was right of course...but still.  
“Watson I...you know I’ll respect whatever decision you make but, I feel this decision may have been made in haste.” He looked dejectedly at their joined hands and Joan cocked her head to the side in surprise at the emotion she saw building in him.   
“Despite my father’s diligent research in to our respective medical histories, and taking into account modern advancements in biomedical research…,” he was babbling but Joan was, as usual, patient with her partner.   
“...women are in fact beholden to a “biological clock,” for lack of a better phrase.”  
Joan’s indignation only lasted a few moments before the pieces clicked into place, well before Sherlock was willing to admit them to himself.   
“Sherlock,” Joan began gently, giving his hands a squeeze to get him to look fully at her. “Do you...want to have a baby...with me?”  
The detective had no words for what he wanted or felt at that moment. His mouth opened and closed as he looked into her deep brown eyes, and Joan was shocked as a tear escaped him.   
“Sherlock…,” she said softly, but they were interrupted by the doorbell.   
Neither of them moved, but a moment later the bell came again and then again. Joan sighed up at the ceiling and Sherlock chuckled as he stood with one last rub of her fingers. He quickly wiped at the moisture on his face before unlocking the door.   
“Hi,” Joan’s sister exclaimed as he pulled it open.   
Her smile fell a bit when she looked at Sherlock’s red slightly puffy eyes.   
“Are you okay?”  
“Sherlock, who is it,” Joan called from behind him. “Oh Lin! You’re early,” Joan greeted with a soft rub between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, a silent vow to continue their previous conversation later. She could feel him relax as she did it, before she embraced her sister.  
“Yea,” Lin began slowly, looking between the two as she entered. Joan took her suitcase and led her to the parlor.  
“I wanted to surprise you; been knocking on your door for ten minutes,” she chuckled. “I figured I’d try over here before I gave up and called you.” She and Joan sat down on the detective’s love seat. “Did I interrupt something? I can buzz off for a few hours. I know this was unexpected….”  
“Bunkum! I won’t hear of it. You ladies sit and I’ll put the kettle on.”   
“Thanks,” Joan smiled at him and he bounced on his heels, nodding before heading to the kitchen.   
“What,” Joan asked as she turned back to her sister watching the two detective’s interaction.   
“Nothing,” she hesitated and Joan knew whatever that thought was it was a ticking time bomb. “How have you been? I still can’t believe you moved to freaking England,” she exclaimed excitedly.   
“I’m good. It took some adjusting to but we’ve made it home. How are mom and dad?”   
Lin nodded, “They’re okay, coping as best they can. Mom started a new behavioral program that helps dementia patients retain cognitive function, and dad joined the group too to keep himself sharp and help her,” her eyes flitted briefly towards the door Sherlock had exited through. “He really loves her ya know, like, till death do us part loves her.”   
“Mhmm,” Joan nodded. “And how have you been? Any new beaus?”  
“Yes actually.”  
Joan gasped and swatted at her sister, “Oh my God tell me everything.”  
Lin laughed, “Well he’s a thirty five year old pieces, he grew up in Atlanta, and he just graduated Yale Law Summa Cum Laude.”   
The women were practically vibrating when Sherlock approached the door frame. He didn’t announce himself immediately, content with listening to Joan’s laughter, when he heard a question he wished he hadn’t.  
“What about you Joan? I’m sure there’s been an army of Brits lining up to take you out,” Lin asked with a smirk. “I know you Joan, you need periodic spooning.”   
Joan chuckled, “No,” she shook her head with a smile. “I...um….”  
“What’s going on with you Joany? First you tell me you’ve decided not to have kids. Now you tell me you’re still not seeing anyone. What’s up?”  
Joan sighed, “It’s...complicated.” She held up a finger and spoke over her shoulder, “Sherlock, I know you’re eavesdropping. Come in,” Joan called with a small smile.   
“How did you know he….”  
“Apologies for the intrusion ladies,” Sherlock came around the corner pushing a small silver cart adorned with several small cakes and a solid silver tea set. “Bon Appetit ladies,” he said with a smug smile.   
“When did you get all this,” Joan asked with surprise.  
“When you informed me your sister would be joining us I hypothesized that she may also suffer from your unnatural attachment to sweets.”  
Joan’s eyes widened for a moment as her sister laughed picking up a small plate to pilfer a few of the small cakes.  
“I don’t have a sweet tooth,” she rolled her eyes when Lin and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her before holding out her hand for a plate with a pout.   
“Right, well, I have several experiments to attend to during our vacation Watson so I’ll leave you ladies to it.”  
“Thank you, Sherlock,” the sisters replied in unison. The detective nodded with a wink at Joan.   
When she looked back to Lin, her cheeks blushing pink, the younger sister poked her in the side. “Alright, spill it.”  
Joan opened her mouth in denial but sighed instead. Her sister was there as a source of trusted counsel, obviously she should discuss what was on her mind while she was there.  
She took a deep breath, “Okay. I...I think I may be...reconsidering my decision not to have a baby.”  
Lin looked from Joan to the empty doorway, “No way!”


	3. Chapter 3

By Saturday night Joan and Lin were exhausted. They’d visited every possible tourist destination and they flung their respective heals in unison when they returned to 221A.  
“What can we do that won’t require us to move for the next several hours,” Lin had asked from face down on a pillow.   
Joan chuckled from the plush chair she’d collapsed into, “We could binge watch something.”  
“Gray’s Anatomy?!”  
Joan wined, “Oh please no. No doctor shows.”  
“Correction, the Grey’s Anatomy drinking game,” she grinned.   
“Ohhh no, no no no. Do you remember what happened when I visited you in grad school?”  
“I absolutely remember what happened when you visited me in grad school,” her smile grew wider as she nodded.   
Joan put a hand over her eyes, “I’m not in my twenties anymore Lin, besides we had cocktails like an hour ago.”  
“I mean I’d seen you drunk before but….”  
“No Lin.”  
“I’d never seen anyone put away that much tequila….”  
“I said no Lin.”  
“Right before I passed out you told me being a surgeon was what you wanted to be ever since you were five years old.”  
Joan looked down at her hands as she sprawled across her plush over sized chair, feeling a moment of mourning for her bygone career.   
“And you confessed that you were sleeping with your English tutor. What was her name, May...Marie….”  
“Oh my God,” Joan laughed covering her face with her hands. “Mary, her name was Mary Mortenson.” She sighed, “Damn she was hot, and way to smart to be a philosophy major…. But crazy! Why was everyone I dated my entire student career brilliant but crazy. Did I ever tell you Mary wound up dropping out of grad school and joining MI6?!”  
“Really,” Lin’s brow nearly hit her hairline and Joan nodded with a grin.   
“Kookoo bananas right!”  
Lin laughed out loud but mumbled under her breath as she calmed, “Obviously your taste hasn’t changed much.”  
“What?”  
“Nothing,” she smiled rolling over onto her back. She thought for a minute, “How about Criminal Minds?”  
“Mmm,” Joan made a small noise of interest.  
“Or we can talk about you and Sherlock having a baby some more….”  
Joan suddenly stood, “Criminal Minds it is!”  
“Yey,” Lin cheered.   
“I’ll get the tequila,” Joan turned to rummage through her secret booze stash.

(SpongeBob style; RIP S. Hillenburg)   
3 Hours Later

“Bull shit! Drink,” Joan yelled.   
“Wha…,” Lin belched. “What now! What do they...do he...did he do wrong now?!”  
“First of all,” Joan held up a finger. “He would NEVER be allowed to put himself back on active duty after...after that attack!”   
Lin giggled and swayed on the floor next to the couch they’d started season seven on. “Ohhhh.”  
“And b...like...ten people would have jumped on him if he’d tried to walk in to a HOSTAGE situation with NO back up and NOOOO vest,” Joan gestured wildly.   
Lin laughed aloud before giving in to gravity and lying down on the floor. “You sound like Sherlock,” she slurred.   
“I don’t nece...neces...actually consider that a bad thing and…. Don’t! Don’t you dare pass out on me,” Joan yelled.   
Climbing down off the couch to shake her sister Joan wined, “Liiiiin! Don’t...wait! Coffee!” Joan stood and wandered drunkenly down the two floors to her kitchen.   
She reached for the cupboard where she kept her drinks but realized quickly that she was too short to reach it.  
Looking around she spotted her step stool across the room. When she finally reached the tin she somehow stumbled climbing down and the coffee went flying, spilling all across the kitchen floor. Joan let out a boisterous laugh before realizing she now had nothing to help keep her sister awake.   
She sighed at the ceiling before a thought occurred to her.  
“Sherlock,” she exclaimed. “Sherlock will have coffee!”  
The drunken detective clambered back up the two floors to her den, and the emergency door they’d had installed for access to the others house. Joan chuckled as she opened it noting that their emergency door was used almost daily to pass between their homes.   
When she reached the kitchen she looked around blearily, she should really start drinking water and Gatorade now to head off her impending hangover. There was no step stool in sight but she knew that Sherlock kept his drinks cabinet in almost the same place as her, only a shelf or two higher.   
“Sherlock,” she bellowed, laughing in her drunkenness.   
When she heard no response she sighed and began looking for a step stool, committing to a full two and a half minutes of searching before the cold made her give up. It was then that it dawned on her, as goosebumps began rippling up her thighs, that she wasn’t wearing pants. She recalled a dim memory somewhere around season eight where she’d fallen off the couch trying to kick them off. She hadn't even thought to put on socks, and now she was standing in her business partner’s kitchen in nothing but a barely thigh length tee shirt and her last pair of clean panties.   
Joan’s head swiveled in a drunken panic as she grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and began climbing the counter and sink. She used the bread box as her final boost to grab hold of the coffee tin when she heard a crash.  
Sherlock stroud into his kitchen rubbing the water from his hair with a towel while reading the German measurements on his newest glass beaker when he spotted her.  
Joan’s night shirt rode up to her lower back revealing the soft curve of her backside through a pair of nearly sheer powder pink panties. In a matter of seconds his mind had committed the scene to memory; Joan wearing not just any night shirt but the I’m Not Lucky I’m Good tee shirt he’d been looking to wash after his last workout. Her hair spilling in soft feathery curls over her shoulders and down to the near middle of her back. Her calves stretched taut as she reached, and Sherlock’s mind went completely blank as the beaker slipped from his slack fingers.   
The sound of the expensive glass shattering startled them both and Sherlock surged forward when Joan slipped off the bread box in to his open arms, her arms grabbing hold around his neck in her fright as she landed, sending his coffee flying.  
“Oph! Oh Sherlock I’m so sorry! I couldn’t find you and I couldn’t reach the coffee and Lin passed out…,” she began explaining through her laughter.   
Sherlock frowned as he carried her a few paces away from the glass on the floor. He could smell her, a hint of her perfume mixed with a tinge of sweat from how warm she kept her house. He could also smell himself. The last wafts from his workout, and suddenly it dawned on him. Joan must have taken his shirt directly from where he’d tossed it on the couch after his boxing session at their local gym a few days ago. She’d been sleeping in it and his mind refused to process the many things that piece of information could mean at the moment.   
Her skin was distractingly soft, and it took a conscious effort not to fidget or squeeze her unnecessarily.   
“Apologies Watson, I was in the deprivation tank. (1) I didn’t know you were here.”  
“It’s okay. I um, found what I was looking for,” Joan looked down at the coffee beans now strewn across the kitchen floor.  
“Joan…,” Sherlock began, keeping his eyes on the beans.  
His tone was sobering and the use of her first name sent her stomach in to an Olympic style somersault.   
“...May I ask you a question?”  
She nodded, attempting to hide her fear looking downward, but her eyes fell on his lips, something she realized was a mistake when she felt the heat of her blush.   
Sherlock closed his eyes to take a breath and fight the shiver that ran down his spine at the feel of her soft hand on the junction of his shoulder and neck.   
He wanted to save this conversation for another time but giving in to his nature he feared he’d never hear the truth if he didn’t ask her while the tequila was perforating her walls. It was low, he knew, but the unspoken words between them were part of the reason he hadn’t slept the week before the gas attack.   
“Why did you take my shirt?” He looked down at his partner with almost fearful eyes, but Joan didn’t look up right away, instead staring at his chest and flexing her toes.   
Her mind spun searching for a plausible lie, but she came up empty handed. How could she tell him that his scent was the only reason she’d been able to sleep since the latest attacked in their home? It wasn’t the only thing of his she’d taken either. She had disappeared two other of the shirts he wore most often, and she was grateful that he didn’t wear any colognes that muddled his smell.   
“I…,” she began.   
“Joan, look at me...please,” his voice was small.  
Part of her wanted to run, to leap out of his arms and flee to the momentary safety of her house. But when she looked up at him, their lips coming dangerously close, she knew she could no longer deny what was happening; for both of their sanity, she had to speak the truth.   
“It helps me sleep.”  
Joan could feel her heart stutter through several beats as Sherlock held her a bit tighter. “Why,” he questioned quietly.  
“I feel safe when I’m with you.”  
The first brush of Sherlock’s lips was so soft Joan thought she’d gone mad. She was dreaming and she’d actually fallen off the counter onto her head.   
He’d barely pulled back from the timid kiss and Joan was kissing him again, passionate and sure. 

Eyes closed, neither detective noticed the flickering of the lights around them.

Joan had once compared him to gravity but she was still shocked by how unprepared she was for this moment. In the movies they say you can tell a lot by a kiss, and they were right. Sherlock’s lips were unhurried, wanton, and Joan understood he was giving himself over to her. Every emotion he’d hidden from her was laid bare, and she drank him in, licking gently into his mouth to stroke his silky tongue.   
But the detective pulled back and rest their brow together, biting his lip hard.  
“Sherlock, take me upstairs,” Joan said softly as her thumb stroked his cheek.   
There was nothing more he wanted to do in any incarnation of any lifetime, but he could taste the sweetness of the tequila on her lips.   
He closed his eyes, “No.”  
“...No,” Joan questioned sounding heart broken.   
“No! Not no, just not tonight. You’ve had quite a bit to drink and in the interest of you remembering our um….” The pair blushed harder and Joan smiled wide as Sherlock cleared his throat. “This,” he kissed her again but only briefly. “I think we should slow down a bit.”  
“Trust me, I’ll remember.” Joan chuckled scratching lightly at the hair on the back of the detective’s neck, smiling as his eyes slid shut and he bared his throat in search of the sensation. “But you’re right, and we’re adults. One night won’t kill us.”   
Sherlock nodded with a strained smile she could clearly read as not being entirely sure of that fact as he lowered her feet to the cold coffee covered floor. He hugged her close, rubbing her arms and back as she shivered, and Joan snuggled into his warm naked chest. “Can I stay the night? Just to snog...I mean sleep,” she joked.  
Sherlock chuckled, “Only if you promise to behave yourself.”   
“Scouts honor,” Joan held up two crossed fingers and Sherlock smiled wide.   
“That’s not the...,” he shook his head but followed along as Joan began guiding him to the door, just mindful enough to avoid the glass and coffee beans on the floor.   
When they reached the detective’s bedroom Joan was pleasantly surprised by how large and tidy it was. “I began cleaning more when I started losing track of my shirts,” he regarded his partner with a raised eyebrow and Joan shrugged her shoulders innocently.   
“For the first couple nights after the gas attack I couldn’t sleep,” she began, pulling her hair to one side over her shoulder while watching the smooth line of Sherlock’s spine as he crossed the expanse of his bedroom to sit on the bed.  
Joan lingered in the doorway, not nervous but caught for a moment in the fearful memory. When he turned to see her in the doorway Sherlock held out a hand.  
“You’ve been falling asleep in my study.” He watched the gentle shift of his shirt across her chilly pert nipples as Joan slowly walked towards him, the sheer of her panties revealing a small heart shaped patch of hair that made his mouth water.  
“Yea...and I tried really hard to ignore why.” She twisted the end of her hair with both hands, and Sherlock felt his stomach twisting in knots at the anticipation of her approach.   
‘Sleep...sleep only...SLEEP,’ began repeating in his head.  
“I realized that I wanted this,” she gestured between them. “But I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”   
She stopped just out of his arms reach and he let the appendage fall back down to the bed. “I thought you might get suspicious if I kept sleeping in your house.” She glanced at the wall. “But I wasn’t able to sleep in mine.”   
“I had been wondering about your nightly meandering, but I thought it would pass.”  
“It only passed after I took your clothes so I could have a piece of you with me at night.”  
Joan stepped closer, Sherlock spreading his knees, and when she stood between his thighs he met her eyes as he slowly slid his hands up her legs. He tickled her at the back of her knees which earned him a quiet giggle, and she made a soft breathy sound when his fingers ghosted her rear before massaging the muscles of her lower back. Joan’s hands found a perch on the detective’s shoulders and she knelt down to sit in Sherlock’s lap, straddling his thighs and they both let out a quiet moan.   
Her detective was rigidly hard beneath his pajama bottoms and he could feel her growing wetness through her thin panties.   
With the greatest mathematical minds in the world the detectives couldn’t figure out how she had managed to land so perfectly against him, and Sherlock let out an unbidden moan when Joan slowly bucked her hips and kissed him.   
For a moment he lost himself in her, grabbing hold of her rump and pulling her down onto the aching bulge in his lap. His pupils were dilated wide, but he managed to wrestle himself under control, focusing on his edging (2) training. Sherlock begrudgingly broke their kiss and took Joan’s cheeks in hand. He pecked her lips one more time before kissing a stray freckle on her neck and whispering in her ear with a soft but deep voice.   
“Joan, you promised me we would sleep.”  
Joan bit her lip and turned to meet Sherlock’s lust heavy eyes. “Please...Sherlock,” she begged with another lingering kiss.   
Sherlock liked to think that if he’d become the pirate he’d dreamed of as a child he’d be the only honorable one amongst the thieves.   
“In the morning,” he promised, sliding his large hands up and down her sides beneath his shirt.   
“Mmmmmgh,” Joan wined frustrated and petulant, and Sherlock nearly laughed at the thought of their personalities inverting on the rare occasion that Joan was inebriated.  
Rearranging themselves on Sherlock’s bed Joan rubbed the back of the hand that curled around her chest, resting her back against her partner’s front. “I’m taking care of this,” she wiggled her backside, smirking at Sherlock’s hitch in breath being pressed head to toe against her. “In the morning.”  
Sherlock only squeezed her tighter planting a kiss behind her ear, “I’m going to hold you to that.”  
Barely five minutes later Joan seemed to have taken a high dive into REM sleep, but moments before Sherlock was able to quiet his mind enough to join her, he heard four sleepily whispered words that would keep him awake contemplating the rest of the night.   
“I love you Sherlock.” 

000

(1) SD: Sensory Deprivation Tank - Sometimes “used for restricted environmental stimulation therapy (REST)...dark, soundproof tank that is filled with a foot or less of salt water.” - HealthLine.com  
(2) Edging: The act of repeatedly stimulating one’s partner to the edge of orgasm and stopping before climax.


	4. Chapter 4.5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meowsings: I hope you guys enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it...and rewriting it...and rewriting it and rewritingitandrewritingit…. (*Hysterical Laughter*)

ooo

Sherlock had waited years to freely touch the woman standing before him, and he intended to learn every taste scent and curve of Joan’s body.   
He also quickly realized, as his nose ghosted the heart shaped patch of hair just above her sex, that he’d have to reevaluate every statement he’d ever made about his distaste for sex.   
He craved every drop of her, his tongue flicking out to taste.   
Joan made a breathy sound, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp, and again his tongue came, slowly.   
Both detective’s eyes slid closed as he explored her, his fingers ghosting up her thighs to rest on her rump as he pulled her closer, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder.  
When he felt a tremble in her thighs and her breath began to hitch he pulled back with a wipe of his chin, licking his lips and mentally cataloging her taste and smell to store away under lock and key in his mind palace.   
He stood and kissed her deeply, chasing her lips when she pulled away, halting his advances with a hand on his chest. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his pajama bottoms and slid them down his muscular thighs, stopping to look up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Now I get it,” she smirked watching him bite his lip as his pupils dilated further, and she gave his leaking tip a lick as she stood, tasting him with an appreciative hum.   
Sherlock’s whole body shuttered with that small touch and he complied immediately when her voice broke through the rapids of his thoughts.   
“Sit,” she commanded gently and Sherlock toed the pants off, quickly scooting back on the bed as Joan followed to kiss him.   
“Joan…,” the detective moaned as she wrapped strong fingers around his decidedly impressive manhood, giving the soft skin a few slow strokes.  
That moan was nothing however compared to the sound the detectives made as Joan guided him inside of her in one fluid motion, her toes curling as his large hands sought to slow her decent.   
“My God...Joan…,” he panted in her ear, his long fingers sliding up her sides into her hair for a moment, and then ticklishly soft along her spine, before taking another firm hold of her hips.   
With Sherlock’s animal hind brain driving, his rationality made note from the back seat of Joan’s bypassing a conversation about contraception.  
A moment later he made a second notation of his own aversion of the topic.   
She shivered, one hand squeezing his shoulder and one in his hair. “Sherlock,” she moaned, taking a moment to adjust to his size.   
She’d been overzealous sliding him in so quickly, only realizing recently how badly she’d wanted to experience this part of him. An important facet of his nature she’d denied herself the chance to even think about.  
Sherlock took a breath to try and calm his flaring arousal, before gently rolling them to lay atop his partner.   
He looked down into Joan’s lust filled eyes and the words left his mouth before he could stop them, “I love you Joan….”  
The doctor smiled as she traced the line of his bottom lip, “I love you too Sherlock.” She punctuated her comment with a kiss, “Where you go, I go.”

Despite his own unwavering feelings for her Sherlock had to fight the urge to argue about making promises that one may not be able to keep, focusing instead on the soft tongue beckoning to him.   
With the slow roll of his hips came a medially of sounds from his partner so erotic he found himself straining not to cum in the first five minutes of their coitus.   
Joan arched as he struck her Gspot and Sherlock turned his attention to the pink of her nipples, sucking and nipping the flesh until they were flush and erect.   
Only minutes later he swallowed her cries as her first orgasm hit, her short nails leaving a red trail down his shoulder, holding him in deep as she gushed around him.   
“Bloody Hell,” Sherlock groaned at her wetness, and he couldn’t help himself as he pulled out to taste her again.   
Joan turned her head, her shiny black and blond hair falling across her face as she bit her lip hard, grabbing hold of the detective’s short hair as his tongue extended her orgasm.   
“Mmm,” Sherlock licked his lips and Joan smirked as she sat up and kissed him.   
“My turn,” she whispered against his lips, pulling him to sit with his back against the wall.   
Joan wondered a trail of kisses and nips from Sherlock’s lips to his navel that left her partner leaking and twitching in her hand. Sherlock nearly wondered aloud at how she’d managed to find so many of his as for unmentioned erogenous zones, but he knew better than anyone how truly observant Joan was, more so than most people realized or gave her credit for, and he knew how surprisingly well she always seemed to know him.   
He gasped at a particularly hard nip to his inner thigh, Joan’s eyes demanding attention just before swallowing him down.   
A few moments later she peaked back up at him when she heard a thud on the wall. Sherlock’s head had lulled back, his eyes closed in ecstasy and his mouth slack as she slowly bobbed her head.   
Joan flicked her tongue against his shiny slit before circling the head and mouthing the hot thick vein that ran up his length.   
Sherlock ran a hand through her silky hair gripping it gently, unsure of Joan’s preference in style of philacio until she winked at him and covered his hand with her own, pressing her head down further.   
Both detective’s moaned loudly as Sherlock took control, pushing her head down harder and slipping down her throat.   
His toes curled as the vibrations from her moan pushed him back to the edge, and he held her there for a moment just feeling her muscles work.   
She gasped and coughed when he pulled her back, a thick string of saliva connecting them as she grinned.   
“Fuck,” he moaned tracing a thumb across her shiny bottom lip with his free hand.   
Joan hummed, raising a smirking eyebrow just as he pressed her face back down, making her bobs more shallow, giving her time to breathe before pressing down and slipping back into her throat.   
He whimpered when Joan took hold of his thighs to force him deeper, happily gagging with watering eyes.   
Only moments later Sherlock’s breath hitched and he pulled her back, moaning her name in warning as he began to pant.   
Joan let the new glob of spit dribble down on to his tip as she took a tight hold of the base of his cock, and Sherlock gripped the sheets knuckle white tight as he tried to calm his breathing.  
“Not yet,” Joan commanded looking him in the eyes.   
He bit his lip, shivering with the strain of control, but he nodded, open mouth panting as Joan crawled back up his legs. He twitched hard as she straddled his thighs with him still in hand, but she kissed him slowly to distract him.   
“Breathe,” she whispered, giving him a few strokes. “How long have you wanted this Sherlock,” Joan whispered, nipping mischievously at his jaw.  
The detective’s hands slid up her back, pulling her closer.  
“Since the Angel of Mercy at Chandler Memorial,” he replied breathlessly, turning his face to meet her eyes. “You were brilliant Joan, and modest as always.” She smiled as she kissed him. “Admittedly I was nearly engorged when I realized you’d forged medical documents,” he said with a short laugh.  
Joan laughed too, “well clearly you have a thing for bad girls,” she winked, her smile infectious.   
Sherlock’s eyes fell to her kiss stained lips and he bit his own, “You are the best person I’ve ever known.” They looked at each other, really looked. “The fact that you saw in me the man I could become...the man I wanted to become, when I couldn’t see it is testament to your great heart.”  
The gentility of their next kiss quickly gave way to a raw passion that both detectives had been harboring for nearly a decade, Sherlock slipping back inside of Joan with a quiet moan.  
Joan on the other hand threw her head back moaning loudly as Sherlock’s arms circled her back and waist, holding her down flush in his lap. He was in deep and Joan gripped the short hair on the back of his head as she shivered.  
He ran his fingers through her silky hair as they kissed, Joan rising and coming back down slowly for a few minutes before Sherlock’s hands gripped her cheeks, pulling her down harder as she rode him faster.  
Sherlock could feel his ability to hold out on his orgasm ebbing and he warned Joan as best he could, “Mmh...Joan...huhh.” He nearly laughed at his sudden inability to form words other than her name but that didn’t matter because Joan was shifting, pulling him forward on top of her.   
They moaned loudly as he sank down into her, one elbow keeping him suspended above her as his thumb stroked her freckled cheek.   
Joan’s fingers scratched gently at Sherlock’s overgrown five o’clock shadow affectionately as he bent to kiss her before grinding into her slowly.   
It wasn’t long before he heard the hitching in her breath that signaled she was close. He was glad because he was so close it was only due to a single minded willpower that he hadn’t cum yet buried so deep inside her.  
Below him Joan arched feeling the waves of pleasure beginning to overtake her, and she dimly noted that the light above them as well as the lights in the hall were flickering wildly. That thought didn’t have time to fully surface however because Sherlock picked up his pace, pounding into her hard, repeatedly striking her Gspot. She came suddenly with a lewdly loud cry, clamping down around him on a down stroke and Sherlock saw white, curling his arms around her and stretching her thighs wide as he instinctively pressed his hips down, both of them left shivering and panting in the wake of their shared orgasm.   
It took the pair a few moments to realize they were now in near complete darkness as the bulbs in the overhead light and Sherlock’s desk lamp had exploded, along with every bulb in the house it seamed.   
Sherlock and Joan rest their foreheads together in the moonlight before she chuckled, “Did we do that?”  
Sherlock smiled goofily, lifting up a bit to look out the window and then out the door towards the stairs.   
“Looks like the whole block is out,” he noted.  
The detectives looked at each other in question for a moment before Sherlock laid his head down next to Joan, sharing the pillow and pulling her close. “They’ll call us if they need us,” he murmured.   
Joan smiled into his peck, covering his heart with her hand. “How do you feel about morning workouts,” she inquired with a nonchalant yawn.  
“For you Joan I’d gladly exercise anytime, place, or where. I can even keep a gym bag near the door in case of emergency.”  
Joan laughed into his chin.   
“I love you Sherlock,” she confessed again, quietly into the darkness.   
His arm tightened around her as he shifted so he could look in to her glowing moonlit face. “I love you more than the world Joan Watson.”  
Her eyes seemed somehow grey in the light and his fingers traced the line of her jaw.   
She was quite for a minute looking into his eyes, “But love me for love’s sake, that evermore Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity,” she whispered as she met his lips. (1)  
He understood.   
Joan was the embodiment of every human impulse he had ever railed against. Every cleshay, every mind numbingly “ordinary” thing he had profaned to hate. Even the ring he’d chosen because of the ruby’s association with the constellation Cancer, Watson’s birthday falling in July.   
Joan was the only person he’d ever met who made love feel...real.   
The only person who’d ever made him feel like a person.  
But her meaning was clear, ‘don’t self destruct if something happens to me’. Selfless as always, she wanted him to fight on, keep being a part of the world if one of their enemies ever got the better of them.  
Sherlock’s mind and heart didn’t agree on many things but he knew that he could never promise her that.   
“And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere.” (2)  
Joan pressed down with the hand over his heart, “Sherlock….”  
“Please…,” he squeezed her tightly in his arms. “Please, don’t make me lie to you.” His lips fell to her hair as she squeezed him back.   
Joan cupped his cheek to look into his eyes. “Okay.”

ooo

1\. Sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning   
2\. The Good Morrow by John Donne


	5. Chapter 5

ooo

Joan’s arm stretched out, and she begrudgingly lifted blurry eyes feeling Sherlock’s absence. Moving a bit faster she sat up, rubbing at her eyes, and looking around she smiled when she smelled bacon.  
She yawned, “Mmm…. A gal could get use to this.”  
She nabbed her bathrobe from the chair he’d draped it across as she rose to join her fiancée for breakfast. Joan smiled again at how warm it was in the house; Sherlock had obviously turned the heat up a bit for her comfort, and she had to stop herself from hopping down the stairs like a child on Christmas morning after brushing her teeth and combing a hand through her long still mostly blond hair.   
The first thing she saw as she entered the kitchen was her detective’s naked back.   
His muscles were tense as he flipped the bacon and she furrowed her brow in concern.   
“Good morning,” she said softly as she hesitantly entered the door.  
Sherlock spun with wide eyes, “Joan!”  
Suddenly a large hand wrapped around her throat as a man three times her size grabbed her from behind.   
“Stop! You said…..”  
“I said I wouldn’t kill her outright if you complied. I never said I wouldn’t rough her up a bit.” The taller blond strode into the room, 9mm glock complete with silencer in hand, before walking over to Joan who’s feet barely touched the floor in the grip of the mercenary.   
“Good morning Joan,” she smiled sweetly.  
“More...arty,” the detective choked out, her fingers working at the ones around her neck as she gasped for air.  
“Please,” Sherlock begged taking a step forward.   
Jamie pointed the gun at Joan’s head as she turned to him. “Stay,” she commanded, and Sherlock raised his hands in a placating gesture.  
“Please, Jamie, let her go,” his eyes were wide with fear.  
The psycho lowered the gun with a frown. “You’ve gone soft love,” she stared into his eyes before nodding to her goon. He released her and Joan crumpled to the floor coughing.   
Sherlock remained deathly still until Morearty slowly stalked away, keeping the pair in her peripheral.  
Pretending to look out the window The Woman watched Sherlock slowly walk over to Joan, careful not to spook the large man with a gun tucked in a hip holster standing just behind her.  
He helped her up, taking her by the upper arms before quickly examining her slender neck and pulling her close. “I’m okay,” she whispered. The two seemed to have a whole conversation without speaking as they stared intently at each other.   
When Joan’s hand came to rest gently over Sherlock’s heart the silently fuming blond began watching them more closely, her ire rising as the doctor’s ring shone. The stone itself wasn’t very big but every carrot sparkled brilliantly.   
When Sherlock covered her hand with his Morearty could no longer hold her tongue.   
“The bacon is burning.”  
The detective’s only response was to unthinkingly lean closer to each other.   
“I said,” Morearty lifted her chin sharply towards her lackey and the man moved immediately, grabbing Joan by her hair and pushing Sherlock away with a large meaty hand to his face.   
“The BLOODY BACON IS BURNING,” Jamie shouted.   
The goon adjusted his fist full of hair and pulled a large hunting knife from a hidden sheath on his holster. He put the blade to Joan’s throat, stone faced as she tried to stay upright on tiptoe.  
Sherlock’s eyes were moistening as he looked between his former and current lovers, and he backed away towards the stove with his palms raised. He removed the pan from the stove and turned off the burner, pressing the button for the over head fan to clear the smell of burning pork.   
“Leave it, I’ve lost my appetite,” Morearty dismissed the charred meat and gestured for her henchmen to release Joan.   
Sherlock didn’t dare move towards her and Jamie smirked. ‘Smart boy,’ she thought.   
“I'm afraid we three need to have a little chat.” She held out a hand towards Sherlock’s office and her henchman grabbed Joan by the arm to pull her roughly out the door, the other detective following without protest.   
Joan pushed at the menion’s hand as they walked and when they reached their destination the large man shoved her towards the leather loveseat so hard that she landed on the floor in front of it.   
Sherlock fought the urge to run to her, afraid of pushing the surprisingly angry blond over some unforeseen emotional cliff. He couldn’t help a small prideful smirk though, as he watched his brave fiancée stand and dust herself off.   
He’d never seen this kind of anger from Morearty, even when Devon Gasper kidnapped her daughter, she’d never raised her voice as she just had.   
He sat close but not touching Joan as he continued to assess his lover turned nemesis.   
The Consulting Criminal seemed unhinged and Sherlock was confused by the intensity of her anger for having somehow appeared behind him in his kitchen this morning out of the blue after nearly fifteen months of silence.   
“Now,” Moriarty began sitting down in a chair in front of them. “The three of us seem to have found ourselves in a bit of a conundrum.” She crossed her legs and scratched her temple with the nozzle of the silencer. “It seems Joan, that I’ve underestimated you yet again.” The blond stared intently at the shiny ring on the former doctor’s finger for a moment and Sherlock followed her line of sight, realization dawning.   
Joan remained silent but squarely met the psycho’s eyes.   
“Having kept tabs on you after our last encounter I clearly estimated the chances of...this,” she gestured between them with her gun. “Incorrectly.” She stood to slowly pace the room, mentally cataloging all the small signs of Joan in Sherlock’s space.   
A lipstick stained cup on his desk, a hair tie on top of a stack of files, a smaller pair of slippers on the opposite side of the detective’s desk where she sat as they disgusted cases.   
Each item she spotted caused a flare of anger in her gut.   
“Your declaration of love in New York was touching.” The couple glanced at each other behind her. “And quite surprisingly I found I didn’t want you to follow him Joan.” She looked back at them. “But I knew you would.” She turned to the empty room and took an audible breath through her nose.   
Footsteps approaching from the basement sent Morearty’s highered gun out of the room and the detective’s took the opportunity to communicate quickly with sign language.   
‘How the hell does she know so much? Bugs we missed?’  
‘I don’t know but I have to get you out of here. We need to contact my father.’  
‘I’m not leaving without you!’  
‘This isn’t a discussion Joan, she won’t kill me and I’d die before I let her hurt you.’  
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Joan signed emphatically just as the blond turned.   
Morearty sighed, “I had an inclination of your coming manipulations when you stopped looking at adoption agencies and began looking into sperm banks Joan.” “What do you mean manipulations,” Joan questioned, her tone boarding on angry.  
The psycho walked towards them until she stood a foot from Sherlock, still addressing Joan.   
“What I didn’t anticipate was the sheer magnitude of your hold on him,” the blond continued, ignoring Joan as she shook her head.   
Morearty seemed legitimately troubled as she stared down at the man before her, her eyes running a gauntlet of emotions.   
“Why are you here Jamie,” Sherlock asked softly.  
Her gaze briefly flitted to the ring on Joan’s finger again.   
It mocked her.   
“I was becoming increasingly concerned about you.”  
“Yes...well, as you can see we’ve adapted quite well to life in Lond….”  
“Don’t,” she raised her voice again, her eyes going hard. “Do not patronize me Sherlock.”  
“I didn’t mean to, I just don’t understand your reason for concern. I haven’t relapsed in years, we have a steady stream of engaging cases….”  
“Your Mascot,” she pointed her gun at Joan and Sherlock held his breath.  
“She’s turning you into one of them.” The Mastermind took a seemingly sad breath. “You always dismissed the idea of marriage.”  
Sherlock lowered his eyes, he couldn’t deny her words, and he kept his voice small when he spoke. “Jamie, please, put the gun down so we can talk.”  
“You said it was ballocks, a piece of paper meant to protect ones assets.”  
“Jamie....”  
“And children,” she scoffed. “You said you didn’t want to damn another soul with the genes of an addict.” She shook her head. “Always so dramatic Sherlock. You told me,” she lowered the gun as she bent to one knee to meet his eyes. “You told me, you loved me too much to do that to me.”   
To everyone’s surprise Moriarty’s eyes were becoming glassy as she searched his face.  
“Jamie...I’m sorry.”  
She laughed as she stood. “That’s sweet. But give me one reason I shouldn’t just eliminate my competition?” She aimed her gun at Joan’s heart, but Sherlock leant far enough in front of her that the killer would have to shoot through him to reach it.   
He was calm as he looked up at her, “You and I had our time together.” He took a moment to breathe and gather his thoughts. “And despite your deception I’ve resigned myself to the complicated feelings I had...have for you...but our time together is over.” He searched her eyes, employing her to understand.  
“Jamie I...I love Joan...and if that makes me one of them so be it.”  
“I don’t except that.”  
“You have to, because there is no competition...and you’ve gone through great pains to keep me alive thus far.”  
Both women looked at him with furrowed brows as he sat back and sighed.  
“Jamie, Joan’s presence in my life is more vital than the air in my lungs. If you kill her...it’s only a matter of time, and you know it.” He met Joan’s eyes first, “There is no Holmes without Watson.”   
He looked back to Morearty. “I won’t stay sober....”  
“Sherlock,” Joan turned his face back towards her with a gentle hand. “Don’t say that.”  
“ Joan...,” he searched her eyes. “There is no case, no intrigue or mystery, that I would enjoy solving without you. And if I’m unable to work…,” he shook his head.  
Joan fought the tears that threatened to fall. “Please, please don’t give up,” she whispered.   
“So I ask you again Jamie,” he took her hand from his face, rubbing her slender digits sadly. “What do you want?”   
Sherlock stood, stepping in front of his partner and backing the blond up a few paces, her gun pointed at his heart.   
“What do you want Jamie?”  
It was Joan’s turn to hold her breath.  
The Woman stared at Sherlock trying hard to suppress the rare and unbidden emotions waring within her before she lowered the gun.   
“I want a child.”   
Both detectives stared at her in shock.   
“What?!”  
“Beg pardon,” they asked in unison.   
“You heard me Sherlock. I. Want. A child, yours and mine.” The blond gestured between them. “And I want to make it the old fashioned way,” she winked at him.   
“No…,” the detective began strongly until he heard Joan cry out behind him.   
Neither of them had registered the new mercenary’s approach until he was dragging Joan over the side of the couch by her hair and forcing her to her knees.  
“Joan,” Sherlock shouted.   
She struggled with the man as best she could causing him to readjust his grip, tearing out a few sunny strands.   
Sherlock grabbed one of the man’s arms and Joan elbowed him in the groin causing them all to tumble to the floor when he didn’t let go of her.  
A few moments of struggling later Sherlock broke the man’s wrist, and suddenly a wave of dizziness overtook him.   
“Sherlock,” Joan called as she watched him stumble before falling to his knees. She caught him just as he fell forward, rolling him to cradle him in her arms.   
“Joan,” he mumbled groggily as she stroked his cheek.  
“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay….”   
When his eyes rolled shut she pulled the small dart from the back of his shoulder.   
“What did you inject him with?!”  
Both Morearty and her original henchman ignored the loud question as the man grabbed Joan around the waist and lifted her like a rag doll, shifting and carrying her from the room over one shoulder.   
Morearty looked down at her highered gun. “Useless,” she said irritably as she put a bullet in his head, a warning and a message to the New Scotland Yard and Moreland Holmes.   
Upstairs Morearty’s henchman number one kicked open the door that connected the detective’s houses, tossing her on to her bed when he reached her room.   
“Get dressed, you have five minutes,” the man’s baritone barked. He closed her bedroom door but she could see the shadow of his shoes underneath.   
Joan stood slowly, the thought of her unconscious fiancée downstairs turning her stomach over. Taking a few deep breaths to calm her nerves she dressed as quickly as she could before pulling out the secret burner phone she kept beneath a loose floorboard for emergencies.   
Quickly turning it on she sent the same message to the five numbers stored inside.  
‘Abducted by JM; SH down; will GIT when able’.   
Moreland had given her the phone years ago, instructing her not to use it except in the case of an extreme emergency. He told her he’d entered his number as well as an unexplained “emergency” number, and she’d been the one to enter the numbers of their DSI Jones, Captain Gregson, and Marcus.   
She also grabbed her spare toothbrush and paste before taking a look in the mirror at her rapidly bruising arms.  
Meeting her own eyes Joan couldn’t hold back the sudden flood of tears. ‘Why can’t we just be happy,’ she thought as she quietly sobbed into her hands.   
She nearly jumped out of her skin when the bruit outside banged on the door. “Time’s up princess,” he called.   
Joan wiped at her face and as soon as she opened her bedroom door she was met by Morearty, tranquilizer gun in hand and aimed at her chest.   
She smiled but Joan could see the anger in her eyes right before she was shot in the shoulder. She stumbled, extending a hand to the wall in an attempt to balance herself, and the henchman caught her as her knees gave out.   
Hoisting her back over his shoulder Joan fought to stay awake as she was carried back through Sherlock’s house down into the basement and out the back door to a waiting black car.   
“Sherlock,” she whispered as she was stuffed in the trunk alongside him.  
With the last of her strength she took her partner's hand, missing Morearty’s frown as the blond slammed the trunk closed.


End file.
